


A Brave New World

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [19]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:47:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your fool," he said easily, with the confidence of one who had forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A Brave New World

I woke by a lake, naked and cold. I tried to think, but could not succeed for my thoughts were murky and vague. I tried to remember my name, what I had been. I knew I had been, once. I knew that my legs were for moving my body from here to there, though I knew not where here or there was. 

“Oh!” exclaimed a voice. 

That was followed by two pairs of legs striding into my view. Hands helped me up. Hands covered my nakedness with a fine cloak. Hands held mine as two men guided me away from the lake. 

I looked at their faces. Had I known them? 

“Don’t worry, milord,” the one to my left said. “It will sort itself out.”

Milord. The word meant something. I had been a milord once, I remembered faintly. I tried to relieve more of that memory strand, but it glided away. 

I wanted to ask these men many questions. I did not. A memory of fear lingered. A memory of mistrust lingered. There had been betrayal. I frowned.

They had lead me through glades of evergreen to the outskirts of a bustling town. Men and women looked up at me as I was led through busy streets. Some of them recognized me and looked relieved. Some gossiped. I wondered what I was. A criminal long renegade? A man lost in the wild? A runaway from a wealthy family? Perhaps the last. They had called me milord.

I was led through the streets, up a winding and broad path that bore the marks of many horse-shoes, up and up around a hill, until we had reached a mansion.

“Nearly there, milord,” one of my companions told me. 

Where? I wanted to ask. Caution choked that impulse though.

There, at the door, stood a woman smiling. She was smiling at me. I took in her features..

So familiar. So painfully familiar. Those eyes dark, those full lips, the curves of her form - oh, I knew her well. 

My companions bowed to her and retreated. I walked to her. Had she been a lover? A wife? 

“Macalaure,” she said in low, sensual tones. 

Macalaure. Memories rose. Macalaure the bard. I had been a bard. I had also killed. I flinched. I had travelled through many lands. 

“Bard, murderer, traveller,” I murmured. 

“Cousin,” she told me, tears falling down her cheeks and lips quivering in emotion. 

Then I remembered her. 

“The woman who should have been my father’s daughter,” I told her, watching her eyes being unburdened by grief. She rushed to me and we embraced. Oh, it opened a dam of memories. Greedily, I blurted out all I remembered. “The woman my brother loved. We lost you. We lost you and we wept. We searched for many years. We were so happy when you were found. Your father died a broken man. You liked your scarlet gowns the best. You were so brave. You rode your horses bareback. I know you. I know you. Irisse,” I said softly, tasting her name as if it was a gift invaluable. It was. Irisse, the beloved. We had all loved her.

There had been another, more dear to me. Gold had been her hair and blue her eyes. I had mixed memories of her - I remembered her crying and laughing, hateful and loving, broken and strong. I remembered her burning into ashes, dying for dreams. I pulled free my right hand from the embrace and was confused when I could not see smears of ash on my fingers.

“Artanis,” I whispered. 

“Come, Macalure,” Irisse whispered. “We are all here. We are all fine. Come with me.” 

So I went with her, fearful to let go of her hand. She clung tightly to mine and I was grateful. She looked at me, again and again, happiness sparkling in her eyes. We strode through halls grand and corridors long. We strode past tapestries beautiful and suits of armour gleaming. We strode past great oaken doors into a chamber high-ceilinged and lit by chandeliers. Men there were, men familiar, and a woman alone stood to the side. 

“Macalaure!” so many of them cried out, and Irisse pushed me into embraces of welcome. I knew them all and memories rushed back - Turkano, Atarinke, Carnistro, Ambarussa, Tyelko, Aikanaro, Angarato, Findekano. 

I had wept for them all, hadn’t I? I had feared for them all, hadn’t I? 

When I reached one I remembered well, he smiled and kissed my cheek saying, “Finally, Macalaure. I am happy.“

I remembered him vomiting on blood-soaked robes by ships stolen. I remembered him hunting with us under lights mingling. 

“Findarato,” I murmured, resting my head on his shoulder as he embraced me. The scent of him was familiar. 

“That is quite enough, brother,” the woman to his side said, smiling. Her eyes sparkled blue and her hair bounced in curls golden about her shoulders. 

I moved to her, overwhelmed by emotion. She did not speak, instead choosing to embrace me. We fit together perfectly, and I remembered that we had done this countless times before. We had held each other as children, we had held each other after lovemaking, we had held each other through tidings of ruin and death. 

“There you are!” 

I turned to find my father standing across us, his tears shining with tears. I hesitated in Artanis’s embrace. He had doomed us all.

“Go to him,” she told me, not unkindly. “He loathes himself a great deal, as it is.”

I settled for a stiff smile and a nod. His grin drooped and his shoulders slumped. He said softly, “I am glad to see you.”

“No thanks to you,” I said sharply.

Sarcasm, I remembered. I had been called sarcastic. I had also been called blunt in my speech.

Then cut in another voice, saying, “Do be kinder, brother. We have all done our parts. I am given to understand that Artanis and you did the most, and we are grateful, immensely so.” 

I did not need to turn to see his face. I knew him. Artanis nudged me gently. I turned. 

There he stood, well-formed and well-clad, a smile on his lips and joy in his eyes. Eyes that were remarkable enough that I had written odes to them. I walked to him and silence fell upon us. He stood there, head slightly tilted, curiosity and happiness warring on his mien. 

“You did more than all of us, Russandol,” I whispered, aching to gently tug the unruly hair past his ears, to caress the fine cheekbones, to lay him bare and to claim him slow.

His hand - his right hand - came up to wave my words away, and he said easily, “I only did what I could.”

I let him get away with that lie. I had let him get away with many lies, I remembered. 

He closed the distance between us and drew me to him, in a light embrace. Then he withdrew and kissed my forehead gently. Then he gripped my shoulders, took a step backwards, and said fondly, “My dearest Macalaure, welcome home.” 

——

“He has not remembered,” Findarato told me later, as we walked around the grounds of the castle. 

“Why?” I shouted. “Why doesn’t he remember? Everyone else does!”

“Lower your voice. I don’t understand it,” he said.

“We must tell him!” I exclaimed, unheedful of his injunction. “I cannot go on in this manner, cousin! I-I cannot!”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Findarato-”

“I mean it, Macalaure. This is powerful sorcery and a warp of Ainur’s symphony. I could not win against a Maia’s song. How did he break the Valar in their entirety? We don’t know yet how he achieved it. He doesn’t remember.”

I scowled at him. That was true, but that meant nothing to our conundrum. 

“Also-” he hesitated, “we do all desire that he remains untainted by his past. He is so happy now, Macalaure. It hurts to think of burdening him with his old ghosts.”

I stopped walking. He must have seen the expression on my face, for he patted my hand softly. 

“Please,” I whispered. “Let us spare him, then.” 

I had hardly wanted anything else than to erase the idiot’s past. Here I was, seething with selfishness, wanting him to remember. Had I forgotten what he would remember? How could I have been so thoughtless? 

“Let him be,” I said firmly. 

There was little regret for this choice. 

~~~

The days ahead proved that I had chosen right. He was so happy, so full of life and charm, that it was painful to contemplate the return of his memories. Our family had always held secrets tight within, and this too would be one of them. 

~~~

We held a ball to celebrate our reunion. I stood with Carnistro, watching the dancers in the middle of the grand hall. There was Irisse and Tyelko, dancing as passionately as of old. It was difficult to watch them and not be tearful. Father was seated and watching them and the tears on his face gleamed in the light of the many torches. He wept a lot these days, despite Russandol’s and Nolofinwe’s attempts at alleviating his sadness. We did not strive to hurt him with words, but most actions and words of ours managed to set him off. Seeing us riding together made him weep. Seeing us laugh made him weep. Seeing us dancing made him weep. 

The songs were becoming livelier. Findarato pulled me to the dance floor. Most of my brothers and cousins had followed. We grouped into a lively choreia, with much gaiety. How many times had we done this before? It did not matter, because I was certain that we had none of us been so lighthearted and full of goodwill on past occasions. We shifted through the circle, locking and unlocking hands with each other. 

“Aren’t we splendid?” Artanis asked me as we joined hands. I leaned across to kiss her activity-warmed cheek. 

“Macalaure, I feel stretched!” Findarato, on my other side, complained. 

“Your jokes have not improved with death,” Turkano remarked across him.

“And even death has not taught you wit, cousin!” Findarato rejoined. 

Turkano rolled his eyes. Findarato rolled his eyes twice. 

“Keep up!” Atarinke yelled from the other side of the circle, matching act to word as he switched positions with his neighbour.

We complied and I knew whose hand held mine. 

“Isn’t this delightful?” Russandol asked me, his voice breathy from the dancing that he had indulged in all night. 

He had been dancing for long, with maids from the kitchens, finding pleasure again in his old hobby. Elenwe was not here, but he did not remember her. 

“You seem preoccupied,” he remarked, looking at me with concern. 

I had seen the concern countless times, but never as warm and pure as this. Always, there had been multiple matters weighing on his mind, as occupied as he had been relentlessly in his struggle to save us all. 

“It is real,” he said quietly. “I used to be doubtful too. We have won, Macalaure.”

 _You won_ , I wanted to tell him. I could not tell him so, without telling him how, and we were determined to spare him all of that. 

So I smiled and lied boldly, “Yes, we did.”

Perhaps it was only fitting that we would lie to him now when he had lied to us all for most of our lives.

——

I walked alone through the woods often, picking paths at random. On a whim one day, I walked to the lake where I had woken. Still as glass it lay, reflecting the light off the skies. By its shore, on the other side, sat my brother, as still as the water. He was staring at it as if willing the water to give up its secrets. My heart ached upon seeing the curiosity in his eyes; would he do himself harm even as we protected him with lies? 

I threw a stone in to disrupt the lake’s placidness. My brother startled to awareness and met my gaze with his eyes wide in surprise. 

I picked a path to his side, avoiding the sliding lakeshore for I was without shoes and I saw no reason to muddy my feet more than I already had.

“I come here often,” Russandol said quietly. He did not seem to mind when I seated myself by him. 

“Why?” 

“I want to know,” he said, waving his hands expressively. 

Of course. He wanted to know. This was what had led to the greater portion of our debacles the last time around. He could not let anything be. I would be damned again before I let him be harmed, this time around.

“Aren’t you happy?” I asked him.

He shrugged. 

“Russandol?” 

“I don’t remember it well; I don’t like that,” he muttered.

Oh, how dearly I had often wished for him to be as easily expressive and frank as he was then!

“I heard that our family spoke to you of the events,” I said mildly. 

He murmured agreement. I did not speak after that. I sat there until he left. He did not leave for a long while, spending the time staring at the lake in a manner determined and grim.

So much for protecting him. 

—-

“Do you suppose he is still ridden by foresight?” I asked Artanis at dinner. 

Most of our cousins and brothers were away hunting. Artanis, Turkano, Telpe, my father and I had been left behind. Telpe preferred his forge, as did my father. They had not reembarked on projects together, though they remained cordial and Telpe sought my father’s opinion often. 

It had alarmed me to see my brother riding away with Findekano, but I knew that my cousin would not speak or act in a manner that triggered Russandol's memories about their past. We still had a lone attribute in common: we loved him. We had come to terms with each other. Findekano had found his peace in his son, in building a bridge betwixt them slowly. I had found my peace in my brother, in the joy that marked his eyes.

“I haven’t seen any indication to suspect that he still possesses foresight,” Artanis replied, after a few moments of thought.

“Neither have I,” remarked Turkano, pausing in his conversation with Telpe. 

“He does not possess it,” my father said quietly, as he pushed his food around the plate. “He said that he felt dull but clean.”

 

“How could that be?” Telpe wondered. “We did none of us lose our mental faculties.” 

Artanis said quietly, “Telpe, we don’t know what he did.”

Later, after Artanis and the others had retired, my father and I remained at the table, desultorily sipping our wine. 

“Do you know why he felt he had to carry the burden alone?” he asked. “I cannot speak to him without thinking of what he did to save us.”

“Russandol was not the most forthcoming of men,” I said, thinking back to those wretched days. “I remember white fire rising up to meet me and it was not painful. He had promised to return. He had promised so many times. Perhaps he knew, even then.”

“I fear he might remember.”

For once, I was in agreement with my father. 

~~~

“Do you regret it?” I asked Artanis as we walked together. She had loved that Prince of Doriath. 

“Oh, I don’t!” she replied immediately. “I had known for a long time of what I would have to do. I regret that I have caused Celeborn and my father grief upon parting, but they have my daughter. And I had been alone, even in Celeborn’s company, after the War of Wrath. On most days, I am ecstatic, relieved and grateful. On other days, I am merely relieved.”

~~~

“Care to ride with me?” my brother asked, standing on the threshold to my chambers, torso tilted jauntily showing off his new riding clothes. 

Between Nolofinwe’s pampering and my father’s guilt-ridden gifts, Russandol had his pick of fine clothes and accoutrements. It warmed me to see him preening before a mirror every now and then as vain as a peacock in his finery. Right then, he had stepped into my chambers and was fiddling with his cape, and I was amused how his eyes were fixed upon that task. 

“Why do you look at me so?” he complained, as he once again righted his cape. 

I shook my head and suppressed a grin at his antics. Perhaps, if our father hadn’t been mad enough to drag us into hell, Russandol would have ended up as much a gadfly as old Ingwe’s son. 

“Give it a twirl,” I suggested wryly. 

He complied immediately and his face lit up as he saw how the velvet spun about him. 

I lost my battle with mirth.

~~~ 

“Are you still-”

Tyelko didn’t complete the question. I nodded anyway, knowing what he had wanted to ask. 

Carnistro cut in then, saying bluntly, “He is now what you had deserved all along.” 

I was touched by the words, but I had to say the truth. “He was what I had wanted.”

“The damn constancy of Macalaure Feanorion,” Tyelko said, not with resentment. 

“In what?” Russandol asked as he joined us, looking dashing in his blue robes. He winked merrily at the serving maid, then smiled as she blushed and scampered away. 

He had never worn blue after leaving Valinor, though the colour had become him well. He had stuck to his browns, greys and blacks after the torching of the ships. 

“In love, brother,” Tyelko said, pulling a chair for Russandol. 

My brother looked at me curiously. I smiled and we changed the subject before he could latch onto the topic. 

Later, later that night, there was a knock on my door. I knew the knock. Concerned, I rushed to open the door. He stood there, clad in a loose gown, his hair mussed from restlessness, his face bearing wrinkles of thought, and his right hand bearing aloft a candle. I let him in, glad that he no longer had nightmares I had to watch him suffer through. 

“Pardon my memory, but who was it?” 

I looked askance at him, wondering what he was asking about. Then I remembered the evening’s conversation at the dinner table. 

“Why does that cause you such unrest?” I asked, concerned. 

“I feel as if I ought to know,” he said hesitantly. “I feel it is important that I remember. I feel it is someone I must know. Who was it?”

“Nobody you know.”

And that was not a lie. He did not know what he had been and I was very glad for it.

“I heard that you were with me through thick and thin,” he said, uncertainty limning his gaze. “I heard that you saved me again and again. I heard that you lived to do all of that only because of your love for a man and not because of your brothers or the oath.”

“You heard the truth,” I said softly, wretchedness pushed away by the innocence in his eyes. 

“Who was it?” he pressed, his eyes burning with his need to know. “I hear so many tales, half-complete. I hear of this man who loved you, thus giving you hope and a measure of joy despite everything. I want to know who he was. I want to know whom I should be thankful to. Please, won’t you tell me? I asked father. I asked Findekano. I asked Artanis. None of them would tell me.”

“Do you remember me?” I asked, gently taking the candle from his shaking hand and leading him to the chair by the window. “Do you remember me at all?”

His expression cleared and he said confidently, “I do! I remember teaching you to write and to read, to ride and to swim. I remember that you followed me around everywhere and that I liked carrying you in my arms when you were younger. I remember that I loved my brothers and cousins. I also remember that I held you closer than I held any of them. I had felt that everything -” here he waved his hands expressively as if to encompass our whole family, “I had felt that everything was incomplete until you came.”

I could not stop. I went to him and knelt before him and rested my head on his lap. His hand came, slow and sure, as it wound its way into my hair and gently stroked.

“I only wish that I would remember this man you loved,” he said with restrained frustration. “I wish to thank him for holding you sane and for loving you well. He did love you well, didn’t he? Nobody would tell me anything. I was afraid that he had hurt you in some manner!” 

“He could not hurt me, Russandol,” I said quietly. “He loved me.”

“Did I know him well?” he asked. 

“You knew him better than I did.”

“Why can’t I remember him then?”

I did not reply.

Then he asked another question. “You were of great succour to me, I am told. Was I- Did I also prove to be of use to you?”

I looked up at him and saw that his gaze was full of trust and a need to know. I touched his cheek and told him, “You saved me from the greatest dragon that lived. I believe that makes everything else anyone might have done pale in comparison.”

“I killed a dragon for you?”

No, you sundered Valinor and destroyed the Gods for me. And I will never tell you that. 

~~~

“We must investigate this further,” Findarato said. I nodded agreement.

“We must find out what he did,” Turkano said repressively. “We can’t do anything until we know that.”

Artanis remained quiet. Irisse nudged her. With a tried upon sigh, Artanis said, “I suspect he made a barter.”

“He made many barters,” my father pointed out, restlessly pacing. 

Artanis sipped her wine and said carefully, “The light of our days is not sunlight. The light of our nights is not moonlight. And we have never seen the stars.”

“The Silmarilli are accounted for,” Turkano said after a few moments of silence.

“Not all the Gods are accounted for,” she said. Her face was drawn in thought and she seemed to be speaking more to herself.

“Ulmo did not mean us harm,” I said, trying to think of who had survived.

“Varda,” Findarato said.

The Star-Kindler.

“Uncle, Artanis!” Findekano’s voice resounded from the courtyard. “You must come!”

We rushed out, to find Findekano bearing my brother’s body in his arms, as he once had brought my brother from the rocks of hell. My heart caught and only Turkano’s strong hold kept me standing. Nolofinwe had rushed to them and was gently helping Findekano ease his burden to the ground. I stayed where I was.

“I found him standing by the lake, staring at the water. He did not seem to be present. His eyes were staring off into the distance and his jaw was slack. I feared it was a vision and rushed to him. He fell to the ground then, convulsing, and it was all I could do to hold him down so that he would not claw himself bloody.”

Findekano looked as horrified as I felt, as he finished relating his tale. 

Russandol stirred then, and he looked at Nolofinwe. 

“I only wanted to know,” he said faintly.

~~~

Later that evening, we were gathered in my brother’s chambers, demanding answers for his misadventure. He sulked. He truly sulked, refusing to answer our questions. 

“What is the game?” Artanis asked finally, losing her patience.

“A question for a question!” he exclaimed, looking relieved that she had asked him that. 

She rolled her eyes and asked, “What were you trying to know?” 

“I wanted to know how that lake had come about. You see, it looks as if there is no water source running to it. There is no life in the water - no fish, no weeds, no frogs. Birds or animals do not drink from it.”

“What did you find out?” I asked, my heart wrung dry by the day’s events. We could save him from everything, from everyone, but not from himself. 

“No, my question gets answered now.”

“Ask, then,” I said, readying myself to lie should he ask me about my lover again. I did not even feel a flinch of conscience accompanying my decision. 

He had been seated. He rose to his feet and went to the nearest torch. Was it for the warmth? He seemed to be more tolerant of the cold now. Had that changed? His shadow danced on the wall as the torch flickered. 

“Did I have a lover?” he asked, his fingers clasped tight and his gaze fixed on Findarato’s shoes.

Findekano, standing next to me, shifted uneasily. Artanis was looking at me with concern.

“You had at least one lover,” I said calmly. “I remember you speaking fondly of a Sindarin soldier from Doriath, whom you had met once.”

My brother nodded, holding my gaze steadily, seemingly unaffected. Only experience gave me the reason to notice the signs that he was flustered by the idea that he had indulged in carnality with someone he had only known for a night. 

“Yes,” Artanis said quickly. “Mablung was his name. You called him handsome.”

“I remember him,” Nolofinwe added. “He _was_ handsome.”

“That is very pleasing,” my brother said calmly. Then he said in a self-deprecatory manner, “It is good that he is not here to see that I have forgotten completely. He would think me rude.”

How he dealt with life even when he remembered very little of it! It drew me to him. Stripped of foresight and memory, stripped of artifice and lies, he still stood calm. Oh, how he drew me to him! 

“Now, it is your turn. What did you find out?” Artanis asked. 

He frowned and said slowly, “I could not sense anything amiss. It is a curious place, nonetheless.”

Relieved, she nodded. I was about to leave when he said, “I can ask one more question.”

I turned to face him, hardening my heart so that I could lie.

“Who is Elerrina?” 

Artanis gasped. I glared at her. I did not know the name. Who was it? Then I realized, in slowly dawning horror, that there had been a woman in Moringotto’s keep who had willed him to live. 

“She was a noble woman of the Sindar,” Artanis said briskly. “Rumours spoke that she died during the wars of Beleriand.”

He nodded. After the others had left, I stayed with him, not desiring to deny myself the sight of him. He did not ask me to leave. 

“You did know her once,” I told him. “You thought highly of her. You helped her son for her sake.”

“I saw her face in the lake. I remember her,” he said quietly, face shadowed by sadness. “I remember that I was wretched in a dungeon and she saved me at the cost of her life, though I am not sure how. I am glad that I remember her. It would be unforgivable to forget.”

He had said it without self-loathing or fear or self-doubt. His voice only held sadness for her and a gratitude for her actions. Relieved, I said, “You are right. I am glad that you remembered.”

“Why is everyone so afraid? What do they think I will see in the lake?” 

“We don’t know anything about the lake. That gives us concern. It is not wise to meddle with sorcery we cannot understand.”

“It doesn’t feel malevolent,” he said thoughtfully. “It only feels familiar.”

“How can you know that?”

He shrugged. I waited patiently. He had changed. He would have changed the subject once. Now, he simply said, “I think I have lost more than memory. I think the lake has it. It feels familiar.”

The White Fire, Moringotto had called him.They had broken him and unleashed a fire more destructive than my father’s. We were, in this family, all of us strong-willed. Yet my brother’s will stood in a class of its own, bending and bowing when needed, yielding to defeats that had seemed to be important, only to rise at the end to break everything that the Gods had held dear. 

Here my brother stood now, well-formed and curious, wanting to know what he had lost. There was no white fire in him now. He had spent it all, to take me to him at the end, to break the Void and to take us all to this land born of the warped song of Ainur. 

“You are my brother, regardless of whatever you think you might have lost. Please strive not to harm yourself for curiosity’s sake. I like seeing you whole and here.”

He nodded solemnly. Then he said, “I wanted to ask for the name of your lover, earlier.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I want to hear the name from you, and his tale. I will wait until you are willing to tell me.”

“What if I shan’t want to?” 

“I would ask for barter; a question for a question. I think, however, that you know more of my life than I do right now. So I will wait and keep hope that you shall tell me one day. We have time. We have all the time we need.”

~~~

“I know,” I told Artanis later. “I know why he doesn’t remember.”

“Do you now?” she asked, smiling though there was no amusement in her gaze.

“He had meant to die. I know that. He would have saved us and died.”

“He is troublesome in his nobility,” she said wryly. 

“What did you do?” 

“I did nothing. Varda stood at Tanequetil, watching everything fall, and realised what had happened. She willingly entered the Void. Before she did so, she asked me how she could open the Void. I helped her. I suggested to her that she might as well as do a single good deed in her blighted life and drag a soul out. He was difficult to retrieve, Varda said, for he seemed determined to reach the Void, having done what he had set out to.”

“You knew he would save us all?”

“No, I knew that he would save you.”

I stared at her.

“Come now, Macalaure. I only wanted him to have a chance at living for himself once, a chance at living with you instead of living for you and dying for you.”

I stood still, wondering how I had managed to find myself attracted to these creatures of guile and misdirection. 

“Then I realized that he had thought this through better. We are left intact with our memories, after all. His scheme worked better than mine, at least according to the results.”

“What was his scheme?” I asked, curious.

“How would I know?” she responded, truly amused. “When has he bothered to explain?” 

“He seems to more inclined to explain now,” I said, defending him.

“I suspect that is only because he has forgotten it all.”

~~~

I found my brother staring at the lake again, looking troubled.

“What do you see?” I asked him.

He turned to face me, his gaze full of suspicion.

“Russandol?” 

“You were married. You had a lover and yet you married. Why did you do that?”

He had never admitted that the marriage had bothered him in the least. It had bothered me more than it had bothered him, or so I had believed.

“I was an idiot,” I told him. “You see, he was not my lover then. Loving him was a crime in the eyes of the gods and their laws. So I decided to escape my heart and married.”

He looked truly sad. I hastened to add, “He was a wise man. He had told me once that the laws of the Gods cannot rule the passions of our hearts.”

“He was a wise man indeed,” my brother said, nodding seriously. “I would have liked to meet him.” 

We remained there awhile, before my brother cleared his throat and asked, “Are you bereaved by the separation?”

I remembered Artanis answering that question when I had posed it to her. I replied, “I am only glad that you are here, with me.”

He inhaled sharply. For a moment, I thought that he had remembered something. I turned to met his gaze, only to calm down as I realized that he was only overwhelmed by my words. He came closer and kissed my forehead.

Withdrawing, he said, “I remember doing this often.” 

It had been one of his favourite gestures of affection. I smiled. Jealousy and possessiveness had all been whittled away in me, leaving only love. I had once thought that I loved him as purely as one could love. I had been wrong. Now I realized how he had loved, how he had not even shirked in the face of what he would have to do to save me. My pettiness at times, my sharp comments, my wrath, my marriage - nothing had made him falter in uncertainty from his path. 

~~~

He took lovers. Mostly young women from the neighbouring villages. He was a thorough lover, I heard, though unwilling to extend intimacy past that of the skin. I was not alarmed, though everyone in the family had expected me to be. I knew that carnality was only carnality. His heart was not given. If asked, I would have admitted that it gave me joy to see him finally freed of his wretched sexual past, if only through forgetting.

We had taken to walking together in the mornings. One morning, as I teased him about the number of conquests, he said, “I wish I could stick to one.”

“What?”

“I can’t bear them in the morning,” he complained. “They don’t know me. They don’t see me.”

“What do they see?”

“Some sort of hero whose deeds are too magnificent to be spoken of. Some sort of martyr who died horribly.”

“You were a hero to many of the Noldor.”

“Macalaure, I only meant that they don’t know me very well, not the way you know me.”

“How would you be so sure? You hardly remember anything at all.”

“That is true. I know, still. The lake only shows me your face now. Nothing else. You are weeping by a chasm. You are surrounded by flames and bravely smiling.”

“I was not brave.” 

He frowned before saying, “Why?”

“I did not need to be brave, Russandol. The fire did not hurt me.”

“How-”

“A man died for me. His sacrifice held me safe.”

“Tell me one attribute of his.” His voice was not demanding, but desperate. Why did he want to know so badly? Perhaps his curiosity could not stand the ordeal of ignorance.

“He was very secretive and rarely confided in me about anything.”

“That does not sound like a virtue.”

“It wasn’t a virtue.”

“Why would you tolerate that?”

“He said his vices were his because he didn’t want them to become mine.”

“It cannot have been easy to love him,” he said. “Perhaps, now- I know many young men from the village who would be honoured.”

I laughed at that. Hadn’t he attempted to ply me with young women when it seemed as if I had interest, back in Tirion? 

“Don’t,” I told him. “I prefer women.”

“But-”

“He was an exceptional man.”

 

~~~~

“Russandol has been making discreet enquiries as to the identity of this notorious lover of yours.”

“Shut up, Findarato.”

“I must say that it does not give me as much pleasure as I had anticipated to see him frustrated with our secret-keeping, after a life-time of living ignorant of his secrets.” 

“Artanis has had the last laugh, nonetheless,” I said dryly, thinking of her last gambit. “I had often thought that she paled in comparison to my brother, in terms of guile.”

“Well, I think it was more impulse than foresight, in her case. We are all very glad, regardless.”

I smiled. Father had been beside himself when I had borne tidings of Artanis’s barter with Varda. So had Nolofinwe. They had smothered her with gratitude. Russandol had been miffed that Artanis, for once, was receiving gifts more fine than those given to him. Oh, I delighted in this new transparency of my brother’s. He would never be as frank as Telpe or I. Still, so innocent was he and free of guile that it ached to look upon him. 

“Atarinke and Findekano were right that he would turn restless without activity. Perhaps that is what brought on his obsession with the lake.” 

Telpe and Father had their forges. Nolofinwe, Turkano and Artanis had their books. The others had hunting. I had my music. My brother was not a craftsman or a scholar or a hunter or a musician.

“I concur. We should find him ways to employ his mind.”

Findarato sighed and said, “We should let him be. He was pushed into everything. Let him choose.”

Perhaps this was why Father had not tried to interest my brother in the forge.  
~~~

Russandol often came to my chambers drawn by the harp. I would be picking at the strings and he would come to my door and stand quietly. I had given up on asking him to come in and be seated. So while I composed, he stood, his eyes closed and his mien relaxed. I was reminded of Tirion often but I knew that even then he had rarely looked as transformed by music as he did now. 

Then one day, as the music died, he cleared his throat softly. I looked up at him.

“Do you sing?” he asked. “Only, I remember your voice was warm and safe. I don’t know why.”

Warm and safe. And I had wondered if it was my voice that helped him at nights during nightmares. And I had wondered if my song helped at all during the days when he had been brought back broken.

Yet, there he stood, eyes sparkling in hope and asking me to sing.

I adored him. I hadn’t thought I could adore him more. I had not lifted my voice in song, not after everything that had happened, the memories of the end still too raw.

“Passably,” I told him, smiling. “I do insist you come in and close the door.” 

I had no intention of letting my family crowd the room, as they would, if they heard my voice raised in song. Artanis had asked, once or twice, why I seemed content with the harp and refrained from singing. I had not answered her.

“What do you want me to sing?” I asked him. He shook his head. 

So I sang a simple lay, of a group of friends and their fishing expedition. They were bumbling fools, charming and wholesome. I sang of their misadventures and joy. I sang of them gathering firewood and swimming in the river. I sang of their return home and of how they cooked fish for supper. 

It was plain and had no ornery, my voice held mellow throughout without dramatic lows or highs. Half-way through, my eyes had drifted closed as I concentrated on the lyrics. When the last note had faded away, I heard a sob hastily suppressed. Alarmed, I opened my eyes, only to find him rising from his seat and making for the door.

“Russandol?”

He shook his head rapidly, refusing to turn and look at me. With a thud, the door closed behind him and I was left miserable. What had happened? I would have left him alone, as I always had, but I feared that his new-found sensitivity might cause him hurt. What was it? I had not sung of anything turbulent. I had taken great care to keep my voice mellow throughout, so that he would not be jarred. 

I rushed after him. I knew where he would have run to. Grim of mien, I ran to the lake, glad that I met no one from our family on the way.

At the lake, on the shore, he sat, his head buried in his knees, his arms clutched over his calves, as he sobbed and sobbed as if everything he loved had been taken away. Frightened, I rushed to him and gathered him to me, driven more by the familiarity of old than by deliberate thought. He came willingly, burying his face in the front of my robes. 

“Hush,” I whispered, stricken by his grief. “Whatever happened?”

“I remembered,” he said, wretchedly, causing me to panic and hold him tighter, willing him to forget. “I remembered how Father died. He had so many wounds and he burned to ashes!”

I suppressed a heartfelt sigh of relief. It was good. It was only our father’s death. It was nothing worse. There had been so many events worse. Yet, I panicked, what if he remembered more? Why had he remembered this? 

“Listen,” I told him urgently, “listen to me.”

His sobs quieted down and he looked up at me, eyes full of tears. Driven by love, I wiped his face clean with my robes and pressed a flurry of kisses to his eyelids, to his cheeks, to his forehead, all over his face. He lifted his head up and pressed his lips firmly to mine and I stumbled back in horror. What had he remembered? Whatever had he remembered? 

He looked horrified and I reached across to grip his arm but he shook his head and whispered, “I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Did you remember anything else?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady and calm, wanting to not spook him further.

He shook his head, refusing to meet my gaze. There was self-hatred creeping onto his features, as he stood overcome by what he had done. What he had done. 

Taking a deep breath, I crossed the distance between us and kissed him. He stood still for a moment before surging ahead. It was familiar and yet not. There was no passivity on his side. There was no clumsiness on his side. Thoroughly and gently, he kissed me. His hands came to envelop me, gathering me to him. Then he moved his lips to my neck. 

“Not here,” I told him, my voice shaking with emotion. “Let us go back to your chambers or mine, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he said, eyes dark with desire. He kissed me again, lingering sweetly. “Whatever you want.”


	2. Chapter 2

I had lain with him so many times. This was different. He led me, surely, unhesitating. He cast lingering glances upon my person as we walked to his chambers. He bolted the door and smiled at me. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, keeping his distance. 

I nodded. I had always been sure.

“Good,” he said. “Very good.” 

After that, he did not speak. He came to me and undressed me swiftly. Then he began kissing me again, directing us steadily to his bed. I noticed that the cot was similar to the one he had in Tirion. The sheets were linen, soft against my skin. 

“Off with your clothes,” I demanded. 

He laughed warmly and complied. Then he joined me on the bed, on his fours above my spread form, kissing me deeper and longer. His hands were playing a composition of desire on my shoulders, on my ribs, on my chest. My desire soared, as happy as I was with his dominance and pure desire. There was no darkness of the Thangorodrim in his gaze. There was no flinching when I touched him or tugged his hair. There was no fear when he confidently kissed me between my legs, wetly, driving me half-mad with want. He was inexperienced with men, clearly, but that mattered not a jot to me. 

I parted my legs further, willing him to have it all. I had not done that before; it had seemed unpleasant in the beginning. Later, when I had come around to fancy the idea, I had realized that he would not ever indulge me so.

He lingered where he was, exploring with his fingers and lips. I reached down to grab his hand. He looked up at me, his eyes dark and lustrous, his lips and jaw wet, his fingers curling around mine. 

“Have me,” I told him. 

He laughed and surged to kiss me. 

“All in good time,” he promised, between kisses wet and wanton. I met him fiercely, my hands leaving bruises on his fair skin, my teeth marking his lips recklessly. All through, I kept watching him, and my heart soared as no trace of fear marked those eyes I loved. He slid his body against me, sure and slow, his breathing deep and loud in the silence of the room. Playfully, I nudged my leg between his, and he buried his face in the crook of my neck. 

“You are not going to last,” I promised him, repeating my actions. 

He lifted up his head and there was competitiveness in his eyes now.

“We shall see,” he told me, and reversed our positions, rolling over and pulling me atop him. I was looking down upon him. My breath caught at the perfection he was. With fingers trembling, I touched his cheek. 

His eyes closed, his smile softened, and he murmured slowly, “Kano, Kano, Kano.”

That broke me. He had not called me that often, not after Tirion. I lost control then. I kissed him, madly, desperately, clung to him as if I was a shipwrecked man and he was the only raft on a roiling sea. He sought to calm, his hold gentle even when mine wasn’t. I broke in his hold, overcome by his touch. He held me close, whispering endearments, whispering ‘Kano, Kano’ as if the word was magic. Perhaps it was.

“It was good,” I murmured, when I had gained a semblance of sense and found myself secure atop his body. “Let me.”

“No,” he told me quietly. “Let me.”

So I let him. Why had we said that the fire in him was gone? It was no longer white. Yet it was there, soft and low, warm and true, beloved. When he claimed me, I held his gaze despite my passion. I held his gaze as he moved, first slowly and then quickly. I held his gaze and lay drunk on the words from his lips - my name spoken reverently. 

“Kano, Kano, my dearest Macalaure,” he murmured, sweat dripping down his brow and his chest. 

I cried quietly as he shattered and I held him. He was shaking in my hold. I drew the sheets over our bodies and sung softly until he settled into calm. He pressed a kiss to the corner of my lips and murmured, “Stay.”

I stayed. 

—-

It was surprising that we managed to keep it from our family. Perhaps it was only to be expected, given our discretion. Yet, it was strange that even Artanis did not notice. Our father seemed to glance at us askance once when I laughed at something Russandol had said during dinner. 

I had not been a man for carnality, or so I had thought. My brother proved me wrong. In his innocence, he had no shame. So he had no compunction in splaying me across his desk and tormenting me for a very long time with his tongue. He thought little of whispering in my ear after dinner that he wanted me against a wall. I enjoyed all of that. Yet the most pleasure was found when we coiled and uncoiled on his bed, everything between us simple and true and raw. 

“Do you mind if I joined you?” Findekano asked me, as I walked.

I shrugged and altered my pace to match his. We had walked in silence for a while before he cleared his throat.

“We did notice,” Findekano told me.

Startled, I looked at him. He nodded and said, “He gives it away, with how he looks at you when he thinks nobody notices. Your father knew before anyone else did.” 

I supposed that my devotion to him had never been hidden. It was as the skies above, ever constant in its presence. There would have been little to remark upon. 

“It is mostly carnality,” I told Findekano, uncomfortably. Despite making amends with each other, it was difficult to speak with him of Russandol.

 

“Oh, I believe you,” he said, laughing, dispelling discomfort. “It will change, I am sure. He is learning it all again, you know.”

“He doesn’t seem perturbed by the fact that we are brothers.”

“He wasn’t ever the sort to be affected by that,” Findekano remarked.

“I am not sure how he would take to everyone knowing.” 

“In his stride, I daresay,” Findekano said. “Don’t worry so, Macalaure.”

“I am not worried about that,” I replied. “I am worried about his memory.”

Findekano said frankly, “As am I. When he rides with me now, the regard he bears me is something I bask in. I don’t want that to change. I dread him remembering what we had been.” 

—-

We held another ball. Artanis and Findekano opened the dances. It was lovely to behold them, the black of his robes setting off the gold of her hair. She laughed in his arms as he twirled her again and again. How had she forgiven him? She had not lost her memories, after all. 

My thoughts fled when I sensed Russandol coming towards me, his eyes ablaze with happiness.

“You look fine,” he remarked, looking at me fondly. 

“As do you, brother.”

“Come dance with me?”

I frowned. “Aren’t you worried that everyone will know?”

“They are not idiots,” he said. “I am sure that they know.”

So I danced with him. Apart from those few occasions when he had taught me dancing when I had been young, I had not danced with him before. It was a novel experience to dance with someone taller, with someone who lead effortlessly. Then he smiled and brought my hand to his waist, letting me lead. Findekano brought Artanis over and we formed a quartet. 

“Switch,” Artanis commanded. “I want to dance with Macalaure.”

“Playing favourites, aren’t we?” Russandol teased her, before complying. 

I was not the only one who noticed the fumbling. Findekano had always led Russandol in their dances. Yet, now Russandol lead so effortlessly that it came naturally to him. Findekano laughed then and gripped his cousin’s shoulder before letting him lead. I shook my head in amusement and turned back to Artanis. We danced well, in synchrony from experience and love. It was a pleasure to dance with her, to have her laugh when I complimented her, to see her eyes sparkle azure as she spoke of the book she was writing on the healing arts of Middle-Earth. 

Later that night, as he disrobed me, I remarked, “You dance well. I had forgotten.”

“Artanis and you seem to have danced quite often.”

“We did. You preferred Elenwe, Turkano’s wife. She was your companion at most dances.”

He had stopped trying to find out who my lover had been. That made me fear if he had remembered something. 

“Would you like to lead?” he asked, placing my hand on his waist. 

Startled, I looked at him. He seemed in earnest. The prospect of making love to him was wonderful. Yet, I found more pleasure in this new manner of relations between us, being loved by him and simply surrendering to his whims. This was different and bore no shadow. 

My hesitance seemed to unsettle him, for he cleared his throat and said, “Never mind.”

He led. As we coasted on passion, he made to turn me over. I preferred seeing his face, still there was no reason why this would not be pleasurable. With strong hands, he kneaded the muscles of my back, making me inhale sharply. His fingers ran down the length of my spine and I arched to meet them. When he parted my thighs, I gladly spread them wider. 

“No, no,” he murmured, bringing them close. Then I realized what he was planning. It was erotic and I groaned in restrained passion as he began sliding between my thighs, coating them wet. 

“Russandol,” I croaked. “Don’t stop.”

“Rub against the sheets, Macalaure,” he said, drawing high and brushing against my genitals. “That is all the friction you are going to get. You are going to crest in that manner, untouched.”

I groaned again and obeyed, tantalized by his slow movements between my thighs, tantalized by his caresses on my back, tantalized by the rough kisses upon my skin. He clenched my arms tight as I crested and then spoke hoarsely, “How wanton you are! I must have you now. Up on your knees.”

He kept my face pressed into the linen and roughly pulled me to my knees. He was still careful when he claimed me, even when I could sense that his control was barely present. His desire articulated itself in cries of my name and I knew that I would crest again. He held me up and I knew there would be marks on my hips. His movements in me were becoming less coordinated. I pushed myself up, balancing better, so that he could let go. 

I was still mulling over this new dynamic when he shifted to take his weight off me. I blushed as I remembered the act and the words. He had called me wanton. I had been wanton, rubbing against the sheets like a mare in heat. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, sleepily, striving to settle me comfortably.

“It was pleasurable,” I told him. “I wouldn’t be averse to it in the future.”

He chuckled and pulled the sheets over us. 

“I was wondering if I might broach the idea of administration with Nolofinwe. He despises it. I don’t mind helping.”

“Do it if you want to,” I said, yawning. “Don’t do it because you don’t mind.”

He did not reply. So I thought the conversation had ended. I fell asleep. 

Later, the next morning, as I dressed to leave, he told me, “I want to.”

——

Our father called us for a discussion. 

“Is everything well?” he asked us, looking uncomfortable and yet determined.

“Yes,” Russandol said. “And it is between us.” Then he left. 

Father stared at me. 

“It is going well,” I told him, unwilling to speak more. 

—— 

The sex was splendid. I had not known that there could be such diversity in carnal acts. 

I had been scandalised when he had taken me to the stables, dragged me inside a stall, swept off the hay, pressed me down to my fours on the muddy ground, swept my robes up out of the way and claimed me roughly. When I had started groaning, he had shoved one of his gloves between my teeth. Later, as he drew his gloves on, he noticed the bite marks and smiled. I cleared my throat, embarrassed. Our hands and knees were bruised by the hard ground and there were splotches of red on his skin from reacting to the hay. 

“Fool,” I said half-heartedly.

“Your fool,” he assured me, with all the confidence of one who had forgotten.

——

My brothers and cousins had taken to teasing us. Russandol laughed. I scowled. 

“They keep teasing me that I spread my legs when I see you. Conditioning!” I whinged, as we lay together one night. 

“I am willing,” he said mildly. “You only have to ask if you want me to spread my legs, brother.”

“I enjoy our arrangements as they are.”

——

“Perhaps he seeks equality,” Artanis said as we walked together. 

“We are equals,” I said. “I don’t understand why there is a need to give and take during carnal relations to prove that.”

“You are afraid that he might remember.”

“There is that.”

“Well, I think you should contemplate more initiative.”

“I don’t want that.”

“It is not about giving or taking, Macalaure! We were equals when we had shared a bed, weren’t we? We took our pleasure from each other, without worrying about giving or taking.”

“You would get along well with him,” I muttered. “Wantonness is something he adores.”

“He wants to be wanted, Macalaure. Get that through your thick head. For some reason, he has come around to think that while he wants you, you are not as equally interested in wanting him.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, befuddled. “I find pleasure in all that he does and he is not unaware of that.” 

“He wants you to take pleasure, cousin. He doesn’t want to merely have you find pleasure in what he does.”

—— 

 

So he wanted me to initiate. At least, that is what I had made of Artanis’s sermon. Cursing him, cursing her, I scowled and made my way to his chambers. 

“You are in a fine temper,” he remarked when he opened the door to let me in. “Let me see if we can arrange something to please you.”

What he arranged was a kiss. We lingered there, kissing softly, and my scowl had vanished as had my temper.

“I have a capital idea for us tonight,” he murmured.

“As much as I look forward to it, I must insist that you be still now.”

He went still under my hands, willing and curious. My fingers trembled as I opened his robes and bared him to my eyes. He flushed under my regard, shifting from foot to foot, uneasy in passivity. 

“You are achingly beautiful,” I told him. His nostrils flared as he heard my words and crimson settled high on his cheekbones. 

I had not dared span his body with my fingers until then. I had feared that was all a dream. _What is to say that life is not death and death is not life?_ had asked a madman once. I had feared that should I touch him as I wished to, he would fly away, burnt into ashes, as Artanis had. 

When I began touching him, mapping the tendons of his neck and shoulders, he softly cried in surprise and leaned into my touch. I directed him towards the bed and he went willingly. When he parted his legs and stretched a hand in invitation, I shook my head and went back to my self-appointed task of learning this body of his that I was oddly unfamiliar with. The skin was pale and free of scars; I had no familiar landmarks to go by. He encouraged my caresses, arching into my fingers with susurrations of desire.

When I had finished mapping the front of his body, I wanted to try something Artanis had enjoyed. Neither my cousin nor my brother would be understanding if they had heard of the reason behind my inspiration. It was as well that I had no intention of telling them.

“Keep your hands flat on the bed,” I told him. He looked curious. I glared. Quickly, he complied. “Now stay still while I take my pleasure.”

“Still?” he asked, confused. 

I rose to my knees and arranged myself astride him, exulting as his eyes shot wide in surprise and then closed in the grip of desire even as his head was thrown back. 

“Macalaure!” he gasped, his hands clenched white and flat on the bed. “May I touch you?”

I did not reply, for it was very difficult to summon words then. I knew I was a good lover, but I also knew that I was not an imaginative one. After all the new pleasures he had shown me, it pleased me greatly to show him this, to watch him as he clung to the bed with great effort, obeying my command to keep still. Soaring on the thrill of dominance, I rode him faster, taking my pleasure from him, eyes sliding shut despite my determination to watch him unravel. 

“Please, please,” he spoke hoarsely. “Let me touch you, let me touch you.” 

I roughly grabbed his left hand and placed it where he wanted to touch, where I wanted his touch. With a murmur of gratitude, he stroked me, managing no rhythm except that of desire. 

“Now!” I cried out, willing him to fall.

He fell.

Afterwards, he murmured, “Wherever did you learn that from?”

I smiled as I thought of Artanis and said lightly, “I am not a complete novice, you know.”

“I truly know,” he said, wincing as he moved to be closer to me. “I believe I shall know this for the next two days. I pulled something in my shoulder when I rushed in eagerness to touch you when I was finally allowed. Macalaure, Kano, how splendid you were then!” 

I laughed, exultant, and threw my leg over his. 

He looked hesitant then. I raised my eyebrows, too satiated to spare words. 

“I suppose you picked this up from that man of many vices whom you loved.”

“He had many virtues too,” I said defensively. “And no, I did not pick it up from him. You and I have had more carnal adventures together than I have had in my entire life until this.” 

It was true. Russandol loved carnality. He found two or three opportunities every day to indulge. Findarato had commented at dinner one night that I must be quite stretched indeed after all the adventures. I did not have the will to scowl for I had been pleasured mere moments before. I had often found it difficult to contemplate that I had had more intimacies with Artanis than I had indulged in with my brother. I no longer had reason to contemplate that and stew in gloom.

“Truly?” my brother asked, wondering and full of disbelief.

“What did you think I was? A rake?”

He laughed at that and said teasingly, “I do see you so! A tall, dark-haired, handsome man who can sing and scowl and spout sarcasm endlessly! I am near swooning when I see you sometimes.” 

“Oh, be quiet, you!” 

——

“What?” Artanis asked, half-engrossed in the scroll she was scribbling upon. 

“Nothing,” I said, smiling.

“Artanis, no scrolls at the dinner table!” Nolofinwe said sternly. 

She scowled and moved it to her lap, still scribbling. I pulled it away from her and pushed her plate closer. She scowled more. 

“Artanis, if you will not eat, I will have to insist that one of your brothers feed you,” Nolofinwe said patiently.

He was not Arafinwe. He did not succumb to Artanis’s whims as easily as her father had. Yet, he was tender and treated her with love. Artanis only sulked and scowled when she felt beloved and safe, I knew.

“The bread is fresh,” I told her. “The goat-cheese accompanies it well, I find.”

Just to spite me, she took the sheep-cheese. Now that my brother no longer required my constant care to ensure that he ate and slept, it seemed Artanis thought I lacked occupation and had graciously decided to step into his shoes to continue vexing me. 

“You should get yourself a lover,” I told her brightly, not put out at all by her antics.

“I don’t need a lover for that,” she muttered, rubbing the edge of her plate in an indecorous manner that made Nolofinwe call out a half-hearted admonishment to behave.

Across us, Telpe, Atarinke and my father were engaged in some debate about prospecting. Further up the table, by Nolofinwe’s side, my brother and Findekano were conversing in low voices. Concerned, I watched them. Findekano looked pale and worried. Russandol - I could not place the expression on his face. 

“How goes your carnal adventure?” Artanis asked me. I noticed that she had switched the sheep-cheese on her plate with the goat-cheese from mine. 

“Aren’t you a curious woman?” 

“I am. Now tell me.”

“Do you fancy him?” I asked impulsively, wondering when she had begun calling him Russandol instead of Maitimo.

She rolled her eyes and said firmly, “All the red hair. I don’t like red hair. Even if I were able to overlook that, I could never stand his soothsaying and riddles.”

I was surprised. I hadn’t thought there would be a man or a woman who would not desire Russandol. 

“Not everyone shares in your affliction, cousin,” she said wryly, upon catching my look of surprise. “Do you fancy Irisse?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Perhaps you should take your own advice.”

——

My sole attempt at taking initiative in our bed increased my brother’s desire to indulge. He dragged me to his chambers whenever he could. One time, so frenzied was he, that we had ended up on the carpet. It had proven to be an interesting experience, despite my misgivings. Not as comfortable as the bed, certainly, but an improvement over the stable-stalls. 

“I suppose I won’t be able to get the stains out of the carpet.”

“The maids do that, Russandol.”

“Oh, no, certainly not!” he exclaimed. “Since we started this, I have not let a maid enter my bed-chamber.”

“What?” I asked, startled out of my post-coital langour.

“I leave the bedclothes out for the maids. I clean the surfaces as necessary. I have become good at cleaning. Why, you haven’t even noticed a difference between the work of the maids and the work of my hands!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hardly noticed anything but him in this chamber. 

“Why would you do that?” I asked, curious. I had thought that he had left his masochistic tendencies all behind. Discretion? There was no cause for it here.

“It is no longer my bedchamber, is it?” he asked in a rhetorical tone, propping his head on an arm and gazing at me as if I were valuable. “It is ours and I have no wish to let another enter.” 

“Turn over.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You did hear me, Russandol.”

He turned over. His back bore red marks from the carpet’s friction. I kissed each splotch tenderly.

“We had become carried away before I could finish kissing every inch of your skin. You distracted me so badly that I had to ride you.” 

His laugh, low and full, made reverberations on my lips as I kissed the nape of his neck. As I continued my attentions, he shifted restlessly and I admired the ripples beneath the skin. 

“The lake does not give me anything new,” he said quietly, as I drew a lick down a thigh. I watched in fascination how his fingers clenched and toes curled in response. 

“You should be happy to hear that, given how keen you were to draw me away from the lake,” he continued.

“I can understand your desire to remember,” I said, going to lie beside him so that we could finish the conversation he was of a mind to have then.

“Then why would you be averse to telling me?”

“The past was not without grief, Russandol, and it suits me to see you untainted by that grief.”

He made a frustrated noise and asked, “If our positions had been reversed, do you think I would have kept you in the dark just because it suited me to see you happy though ignorant?”

“Certainly,” I said, thinking of his wretched secret-keeping and riddles. “You, my brother, had a penchant for protectiveness that far exceeded mine.” 

“What did I do?” he asked again, dogged in his need to seek answers. “Did I kill?”

“We have all killed.”

“Then what could be worse?” he asked, eyes full of imagined horrors. Eyes that we had called as grey as the raiment of Este, eyes that had been as the storm-clouds of Beleriand, eyes of our cursed grandmother. Yet here his eyes bore no marks of foresight, or of madness. They were soft and warm, sparkling with life and joy. 

“Macalaure?”

Not the farthest reaches of imagination could suggest what reality had been, for him. 

“Have I dallied with Findekano?” he asked, troubled. “Only, his reactions to some of my words were indicative. He didn’t tell me anything but I could sense that something had happened. I sought the lake’s answers but it gave away nothing.”

“You weren’t forthcoming about your dalliances,” I replied. “You preferred discretion.”

“Dalliances? Did I frequently dally?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. Each question of his tore down my reserve more and more. Shut up, I wanted to tell him. We know what we are doing, in keeping it all from you. It is for your sake. 

“My will is not enough,” he said quietly, sadness evident in his tone. “I am not strong-willed enough to wrest answers from that lake.”

It pained me to see him sad. It also reassured me that he would not be harmed by answers, at least from that lake. I thought of what he had said, earlier, about sensing that the lake held something of him. I was not my brother. I was not Artanis. Yet, sometimes, even I could put two and two together.

My dearest brother would not be able to wrest answers from that lake. Nor would anyone else. It had been wrought of his will, at a time when his will had been a force enough to ruin the Gods. 

“What did I lose, Macalaure? At least, tell me that,” he sought. 

“Only what you willingly gave up.” 

——


	3. Chapter 3

At breakfast one day, while listening to Findarato and Artanis squabbling about cherry preserves, I noticed that my father’s gaze was fixed on me. I looked up at him. He had finally given up asking me about how matters with my brother fared. 

“How goes it with his memories?” Father asked. His tone had been light, but his eyes gave it away.

“He shouldn’t remember anything as long as we keep to our stand,” I said carefully, trying to gauge what bothered him.

“We don’t know where we are,” Father said. “We don’t know if this is temporary.”

“This could be the Void itself for all I care,” I responded. “I am with him.”

“Women from the villages around us cannot conceive. Our rangers, though they have travelled far afield, cannot find another settlement. It is important to understand, Macalaure.”

“It is a strange limbo,” Findarato said, turning to me. “I cannot spot a single Sindar amongst the villagers around us. Every single person is of Noldor blood.” 

Elwe Singollo had been beloved to my cousin. Findarato must have wondered often how we alone had wound up here. 

“He cannot help you there,” I said firmly. “He remembers nothing.”

“If his memories were triggered-” Father began.

Artanis cut in, saying sharply, “What if his memories were triggered and he succumbs to despair, and we are still no better off in understanding what has happened? I would not advise that we attempt anything of the sort.”

“We do need a plan should his memories be triggered!” Father exclaimed, looking quite worried.

He was right to be worried. What if, despite our best intentions, something caused him to remember? 

“Macalaure is becoming deeply involved. What if Maitimo returns to what he was, once he remembers?” my father continued. 

“Don’t,” I interrupted. “I am not worried about how it will affect me. I am worried about how it will affect him.”

“I am worried for both of you. You are my son too,” my father told me plainly. 

I scowled at him. It had only taken all our deaths before he had started to love his children above the works of his hands. 

“You are overwrought, uncle,” Artanis told him. “There is little cause to worry on Macalaure’s behalf. Russandol has never harmed him. That won’t change.”

“Aren’t you concerned about our situation?” Father asked her. “We haven’t seen so many who died for us. We have not seen any of the Sindar.”

We had not seen Finwe. Did that upset Father? I frowned. He was a temperamental man. I hoped dearly that he would not attempt something foolish. 

“What does it matter?” Artanis asked him. “We are here. We are together. Let Russandol be, uncle. He cannot help us solve this. And he shouldn’t have to. He has done enough.”

“I agree,” Father replied. “I only wish to know what caused this!”

Artanis sighed. Then she picked her words carefully, saying, “You wrought the Silmarilli using your soul. You could do that, because of your mother’s legacy, because of the Flame Imperishable that was passed down from her to you.”

“And because of my training,” Father pointed out. “I could not have done it without the studies under Moringotto.”

“I am merely attempting to tell you that it is possible to achieve results of great magnitude without being able to replicate them.”

“That made no sense,” Findarato told her.

I concurred with him. Father, however, looked thoughtful.

——

 

“Macalaure?” 

I patted his shoulder and drifted back into sleep. 

“Macalaure, please.”

I knew that tone. Frightened, I woke up. He was lying still beside me. The dying fire in the grate cast his features into sharpness. I knew, before I met his gaze, what I would see. There were tears running down his cheeks. There was regret and rage and shame in his eyes. 

I began singing, softly first and then loudly enough to drown the crackling of logs in the grate. I remembered that he used to be easily startled by that sound. 

He did not speak. He watched me, as if afraid that I would leave. When I finally noted the rage recede from his features, I gathered him to me. 

“They were so young,” he whispered. 

I remained silent, waiting.

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I killed them all with my bare hands. They screamed and struggled. The guards laughed.”

He had spoken of the young thralls once before, of how they had been used as bait to make him break, of how he had always broken. 

“Come, get dressed. I want to show you something.”

He was still stricken by the dream that he followed my instructions as if in a daze. I led him out to the stables, saddled two horses, and helped him mount one. We went down the hill to the nearest village. The torches were lit but were burning out as dawn approached. A dog barked as we passed the village square. I took us past the fountain, past the tanner’s, past the blacksmith’s, until we reached the large house that was our destination.

He came meekly and I steadied him with my touch on his wrist. 

An old man answered my knock.

“Prince Kanafinwe! Come in, come in! What brings you here at this hour?”

“My brother and I would like to see your charges.”

“If that is not inconvenient to you, sir?” my brother asked the man, his voice calmer and his face composed. He had not changed. He would not bare weakness before others. 

The old man said that no time was inconvenient to assist the princes. He led us down a broad corridor until we reached a large sleeping hall, well-kept and tastefully furnished. There, sleeping quietly, were twenty or thirty children. The old man had tactfully left us alone. My brother’s hand gripped mine.

“You should see that they are safe; each one of them. Yes, they had been Moringotto’s captives. You, however, had nothing to do with their capture. They would have been made sport of and killed anyway. You spared them from worse. They are here now. They are safe.” 

He made a queer sort of sound, between a laugh and a sob, and fell to his knees covering his face with his hands. I could see his shoulders heaving. I wanted, badly, to embrace him. I let him be. A lesson that I had learned, that he never had, was that you could not fight somebody’s battles for them every time. After what had seemed like an eternity, after I had to use all my restraint to not comfort him, when his breathing evened out finally, he looked up at me with his eyes so haunted, and said, “I don’t want to remember anything else.”

I knelt across him, took his hands in mine, and said quietly, “Even if you do remember, I will be here to show you how each memory ended. I will be here to show you why it was all worth it. I will be here to tell you, everyday, as often as you would like, how you wrought for us the ending we deserved instead of the ending that was handed down to us.”

“Artanis and you did it. The rest of us merely did what we could,” he said, inconsolably, his eyes still on the sleeping children. 

There had been a prophecy in the North, pronounced by Mandos. The only way to kill the prophecy had been to kill the God.

“My dearest Russandol, there was nothing Artanis and I did that had not been intended to be so by a man brave, broken and brilliant.”

“The man you loved.”

“Yes, the man I loved.”

He clasped my hands between his then, and asked me imploringly, “Even if there be no fire left, could you still -”

“You remembered.” 

I sighed. When he dragged me for an embrace, I went willingly, easing my head on his breast as of old. When his hand stroked my hair, I cried for the cruel trick of fate: that he should have been so happy and innocent only to have it all taken away. 

“I don’t remember. I might,” he said wretchedly. “I want to remember you. However, I am also afraid to.”

“Best not to, Russandol. We were none of us at our most virtuous.”

He lifted my chin so that our eyes met. There was calm in his gaze. I knew him better. I knew the tints of fear and hope flecking the grey. 

Cupping his cheeks, I kissed him and vowed, “Even if there is no fire left, I will, always.”

He exhaled and granted me a watery smile, his eyes still flicking back to the children as if frightened they would die before us. 

“How did you know?” I asked him, curious. 

“You,” he said, his smile this time touching his eyes. He continued warmly, “I suspected it from the beginning. You knew me. Now, you have brought me here, as if you had known all along. I think I might have spoken of this only with someone I had given everything to.”

Someone he had given everything to. I was ridiculously proud of him, as I always had been of each achievement of his. I also felt undeserving and wretched thinking of what he had done. 

I stood and offered him my hand. He accepted. We closed the door behind us, walked down the corridor, took our leave of the kind, old man and walked out into the night. As he went to get our horses, I smiled at the starless, moonless sky. 

“You are wrong, you know,” I told him when he came back leading our horses.

He looked at me curiously.

“There will be always fire left. In the skies above us, in the lives around us, in the soil we walk upon, in the lake by which we were returned - there will be always fire, the white fire of Maedhros Feanorion that broke the Void and freed our souls, marking each of us for the rest of our lives. And for those we left behind, they will have had victory and peace, handed to them by what we did, by what you gave.”

“I don’t know what happened,” he said softly, sadly. “Artanis told me that I should not think too much about it. She is right, likely. Still, when I see Findarato and think of his Sindar King, or when I see Father and he looks at me as if wanting to ask what happened to Grandfather, I feel helpless and ignorant. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did, or even if I did something. For all we know, Varda could have granted us this kindness.”

“You must have truly forgotten, to think Varda capable of kindness,” I said dryly. 

“I wish that I could remember, if only to think upon each and every sarcastic comment you must have made to expound upon our pathos throughout our lives.”

“My dearest Russandol,” I whispered, and I kissed him under the aegis of the brightening skies as day came to our lands. 

——

“In the beginning, Aikanaro found Feanaro by the pond,” Nolofinwe told me as we went over the household accounts together. “They nearly killed each other. Rather, Aikanaro nearly killed Feanaro for all that had been his fault. Then, they had the sense to put aside that and explore this land. An empty land it was, with no man or beast or bird or tree. There was only land. Frightened, they ranged together, until they found trees and birds and animals. They came back to the lake, by accord, for they sensed something familiar about the place. They planted trees, they raised cattle, they raised hawks. More people were found by the pond. They colonised this strange land, together. Then Findarato was found. It continued. There was no reason to any of this, no logic. They lived in fear, worried that this might be a ploy to break them in the Void, even more than they had been broken. Yet, Aikanaro realised that the lake provided only calmness to those who came to it seeking answers. A strange calmness it was, he thought. He was the first to think that it might be the work of benevolence, though he was not sure how it had come about. He suspected it might be Nienna.”

“And you?”

“I knew, instinctively. I had raised him as mine, when Feanaro and Nerdanel had traipsed prospecting and forging. Strange as this sounds, I felt it when he died.” He cleared his throat. “I rushed to the lake then. Then I waited and waited until I saw him. I had been frightened for him. Feanaro remains broken to this day, remembering all that he had caused. Russandol, I knew, would blame himself for more than his share. Yet, his first action was to smile, free of guile and regret.”

“He had a dream that has taught him regret.”

“It is not unexpected. Artanis herself does not know what happened in bringing him here. She wrought this with her dying breath. And yet, Russandol was found long before she was found. Time works differently now, did you notice?”

“I have noticed. One more matter I don’t understand, uncle.”

“There, now. I have faith in you, Macalaure. You held him sane once. Now, with the odds in your favour, there is nothing to worry about. And your brother knows there is nothing to gain by regrets.”

“Father seems to be taking it all badly. I think he is very unhappy, Nolofinwe.”

“I love your father. I must still say truthfully that he is a temperamental man. Always will be. Let him make his peace as he will, Macalaure. He is no longer his children’s concern and there is no cause to bind their happiness to his. Telpe understands that. Russandol understands that. They have ceased worrying about his happiness and goodwill. The rest of you must, too.” 

—— 

Artanis and Nolofinwe, as once in Hithlum, had the grand idea of creating heated, communal bath chambers inside the mansion. They set their minds to the project with their usual aplomb, supervising, planning and debating choices for the best plumbing and heating systems. Irisse complained, Findarato waited impatiently, and I gave the construction area a wide berth.

“Nolofinwe tells me that we had large, communal bathing chambers in Middle-Earth,” Russandol told me that evening. I had found him in my chambers, working feverishly on a scroll. 

“Why are you here?” I asked, confused, for we usually kept to his chambers.

“Need to finish this,” he muttered. “I can’t get anything done in my chambers. It reeks of us.”

“Reeks?” I asked, offended by the term.

“The subtle notes of rosin and vellum that constitutes our fragrance distracts me so that I decided to admit defeat and retreat in good order.”

“Word-smith.” 

I walked to him and kissed his hair. He made a content noise in his throat and continued working. 

I wondered if this was a moment to exhibit sexual initiative. Perhaps I could strip and artfully drape myself on the bow-window seat. That would garner his attention, wouldn’t it? I grimaced, however, as I imagined the ridiculousness of such a picture. If he wanted carnality, he would tell me. There was no reason to play the trollop. 

I watched him work for a while before retiring to my bed-chamber with a book. It was unlike him to forego a day without carnal athleticism and I intensely disliked being awoken from my sleep. So a book it would be. 

Halfway through the descriptions of the best conditions to farm turnips, my mind turned of its own accord to my brother. His carnality showed no signs of receding. I frowned. I found true pleasure in the acts. Yet, I worried that our relations were not equally matched emotionally. He loved me, that I knew. He had not told me anything of the sort, but I had learned to read him long ago.

I shook my head. Perhaps it was only delayed adolescence. I did wish that we spoke more. I was gravely concerned by him remembering the children of Moringotto’s keep. I wanted to ascertain that did not haunt him. 

“Ready?” he asked cheerfully, coming in and promptly disrobing. 

In the candle-light, he was a magnificent creature. I cleared my throat, fixed my eyes on the page before me, and continued reading. He made his way to the bow-seat, draped himself tastefully on the seat, a leg hanging down and a leg half-raised on the seat. A hand was splayed across a thigh, and the other came to rest delicately on his lap. 

I put my book on turnips aside.

“I knew that would suffice!” he said, smiling. 

“I had intended to do that myself, earlier,” I said wryly, walking to him and kissing his knee-caps both. 

“You might have thought it beneath the propriety of your princely self.”

I kissed his ankles, lifting each to my lips, thrilling in his expression when I brought his left leg perpendicularly straight to his torso. 

“I thought it beneath the propriety of anyone but a trollop, brother. Clearly, I was wrong. You look a painter’s muse. I did attempt the feat once, you know. It was unsuccessful.”

“Ah, I do not doubt that,” he said teasingly. “You are no painter.”

“Careful now, you would not want to tease a man who holds your ankles at such an improper angle, would you?”

“Ankle. You hold one ankle.”

“I shall remedy that.”

He inhaled sharply when I did so. I felt tautness creep into the flesh I gripped. I looked at him carefully. Desire there was in his gaze and a mixture of uncertainty and fear. 

Why was he afraid? Had he remembered something from the past? I had learned not to leap to conclusions. It had only taken me centuries to learn that. I watched him closely. His breathing was jagged, his eyes were fixed on mine, and his hands were curled into fists.

I had once bemoaned that men rutted like animals. I preferred gentleness of touch and despised coarseness in carnality. I did not know what he preferred. 

“What will you do now?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“If I were stronger, I would carry you to bed.”

“I believe I can manage the walk on my own, should it please you to release my ankles.”

I kissed his ankles once again, before bringing them down to the window seat. He gave me a weak smile before rising to his feet and walking towards the bed. I watched the fine view he made, pale of skin and supple of form. 

“Perhaps you could contemplate how you might have me today as I undress,” I told him.

He turned upon hearing my words and snapped, “Before you came, I indulged in male lovers. Even though I-”

“What is the purpose of mentioning that?” I cut in sharply. Possessiveness flared in me. Here I had thought that my love was burned to purity, free of lower taints, only to find his words enraging me. “What do you expect me to say? I am glad that they fucked you even if I shan’t!”

“You think little of me, clearly,” he retorted, anger flushing his features. He pulled the coverlet in one sharp movement and draped it over himself. “I have not been fucked, as you crudely worded it. I waited, even when I remembered nothing.”

“I think the world of you,” I said quietly, anger draining away leaving only sadness for us. “Why do I hurt you so?” 

He had waited, even when he had not known. He would, of course. Love that had withstood all that it had could scarcely be vanquished by Artanis’s bartered sorcery gone wrong. Try as I might, my love would never be as unselfish as his. I remembered our last carnal episode before his death, when he had given himself in the only manner he had not been forced to by someone else. _Something only you have had_ , he had said then.

He looked angry and confused. He had forgotten the previous occasions where my tongue had accused him of sordidness. I sighed. For better or worse, we were here, and I would have to bridge the gap between the remembered and the forgotten. 

“May I have you?”

“No,” he said curtly.

He walked to the outer chamber, gathered his robes, dressed, picked up his scrolls, and left me alone.

At least, I consoled myself, there had been no tent pegs.

—— 

Pride. We had all of us lost the vice in the years of long defeat. Even Artanis, perhaps, had traded pride for love, tolerating the Prince of Doriath’s infidelity for the times when he loved her well, knowing that they would be parted at the end. 

Of us all, my brother had been the first to surrender pride. He had begged Irmo on his knees for Artanis’s life, Telpe had told me once. He had been the first to kneel and weep, in Valinor, in audience comprised of Gods, nobles and lay-folk, when he had brought tidings of Finwe’s death. 

And after that, perhaps there had not been a single day until his death when he had not been required to surrender. 

It was my turn, I decided. He remembered nothing of the past, but if one day he did, I wanted him to remember this too. So I went to him, often, speaking of the mundane. It was a capital idea, though I had come to realize that I ought to find more riveting material than farming if I were to hold his interest.

“Did you know that both sexes of doves produce milk for their young?”

He continued cutting his fruit into smaller slices.

“It is not proper milk, of course,” I continued. “It is a secretion from their crop.”

He continued cutting his fruit.

“Macalaure, had I known you were interested in doves, I would have asked you to come along last week when Turkano and I went to the northern reaches to watch birds,” Atarinke told me. The avid ornithologist that he was, he picked up the thread of conversation and told me all about doves and flamingoes, and their milk. 

My brother continued cutting his fruit into still smaller slices. 

——

After doves, urns and thatching all had proven to be of little use, I made my way to Artanis. She was quite occupied charming a strapping, young fellow who looked to be a mason. The Prince of Doriath had at least been a hunter. I sniffed in disapproval at her choice. 

“Shut up,” she told me, sending a last coy smile at him, before joining me. “He is very good at what he does.”

“I suppose he needs to be; I expect him to be terrible at everything else.”

“Then it is just as well that I am excellent at everything else, cousin.”

“He has a cleft chin, Artanis.”

“Do you wish to remark upon his many failings in physique and intellect, or do you wish to speak to me of matters of greater import?”

“It is Russandol,” I said, finally caving in defeat to the inevitable. 

“It is always Russandol, cousin,” she told me without a shred of sympathy. “I cannot help you. You must learn to converse with him, you know, sooner or later.”

“It is not my fault that every attempt at conversation has been taken as carnal interest,” I complained. “I have been trying to.”

“I think, if you had given him any indication that you were amenable to more than carnality, he would have acceded. And in his natural equilibrium, he is quite the conversationalist.” 

How was it my fault that he had no interest in the varied subjects I spoke of? 

“I must say that it gives me pleasure to see that, for once, he is not letting you walk all over him,” she remarked.

I scowled at her. No further advice seemed to be forthcoming. Her eyes were fixed on the mason who was chipping away at a block of stone. I scowled at him and walked away. 

She was right, I realized. My brother of old would have forgiven me easily and bent over without a word of reproach, granting me whatever I asked for. I felt gratitude blossom in me and a strange happiness, at the epiphany that he was finally drawing a distinction between love and thralldom.

I went to Nolofinwe, who was only too glad to give me several books on political discourse and philosophy. They looked frightfully unappealing. Yet, my course was fixed.

——

“Do you suppose that in all men there run common patterns of reasoning that can be analyzed and distilled by observation?”

My brother jostled the parchments on his table irritably.

“Perhaps a series of questions, each building upon the previous, could be used to arrive at such patterns?”

He looked at me then, pained. I frowned. I had thought that I was doing reasonably well. My command of the text had even passed muster with Findarato.

“Perhaps we can start with a hypothesis, and then prove or disprove it in a rigorous manner by questioning.”

He laughed, finally, and shook his head.

“Russandol?” I asked, relieved. I had forgotten the rest of my lines. 

He was still smiling as he replied, “You are ridiculous.”

“Only for you.”

His eyes softened and he rose to his feet. I waited with a foolish grin, ecstatically happy, and laughed when I was pulled to him. His kiss on my brow was benediction. I sighed and relished the joy of being held.

It had only taken me until Nirnaeth Arnodiead to forgive him when he had offended me in Barad Eithel before my marriage. He was a better man than I. And none of that mattered, I decided, when he had forgotten and I had been forgiven. 

“I have been out of sorts; I have been wondering however I accomplished anything without my right arm,” he murmured uneasily. “I have been trying for the last few days to make do without it, but I have not been successful.”

I gripped him tight.

“Truly a whim, Macalaure,” he hastened to add. “I only wondered if I might ask you if I had been extremely dependent on the aid of others for a long time in even the most basic of needs.”

I kissed the joint of his right shoulder and replied, “You seldom spoke of your ills or limitations. It was Findekano’s opinion, and yours too, that you had lost sensation in the arm long before he rescued you. I can only imagine how horrifyingly painful it must have been before that. You did not speak of that to me. What I did witness, I can tell you. I witnessed you learning to cope, and then learning to excel despite the lack of your arm.”

“I see. Findekano was not forthcoming on the subject.”

“Those days took a dark and bitter toll on him,” I said diplomatically, wondering that it had come to this: that I would defend Findekano in a bid to keep the secrets safe from my brother’s prying. “They took a toll on all of us. I am sure that you can understand why he would be hesitant to speak of it now, when we have found peace.”

He fell silent then, his expression pensive. I wondered what his mind dwelt upon. Even at the worst, there had always been Artanis, my brothers and my cousins together; I had never been truly alone in my relationship with my brother. They had been supportive even when I had not been receptive. Here we were, finally, just the two of us in a chamber with nobody else meddling.

“You look uncertain,” he remarked.

“I am.”

“Whatever might cause you uncertainty, here?” he asked, truly bewildered. “There is only us.”

“What now?” 

“Are you of a mind to indulge?” he queried brightly. “I find that I am.”

I suppressed a sigh and let myself be led through a dance of senses. He was a remarkable lover and a mildly domineering one. I wondered what his old vow of submission had cost him. He had found pleasure in that too, I knew, but it had seemed more a learned response. 

He had arranged me atop him. I looked at him curiously as he brought my hand to his mouth. My eyes slid shut when he began laving my palm with his tongue. I forced them open, to watch him as he wantonly licked the crevices between my fingers. 

“Something mutual,” he promised, gripping us both, his hand over mine. The slickness of my saliva added an element of reluctant eroticism to my mind that craved cleanliness above all. 

“There, there,” he murmured, as I crested and collapsed ungracefully onto him. “I have you.”

Later, as I wiped myself down carefully, I reflected that I must truly love him to tolerate the saliva. I shuddered. Taking a wet cloth, I made my way to the bed and wiped him despite his sleepy protests. I suppressed a smile. Left to him, we would be unbathed men reeking of each other more often than not. 

“Prude,” he told me, batting away the cold cloth as I wiped his chest.

There, prone upon our bed amidst the disturbed bedclothes, lit by the torchlight, with his hair spilling over his pale torso a shade of vermillion deep and his eyes molten quicksilver, he was a living painting unimaginably magnificent that I had to look away overwhelmed.

——

In between wondrous episodes of carnality, he managed to find himself a new occupation.

“We need a new home,” he told us at dinner one day. Artanis, in the middle of hiding her vegetables underneath the bread away from Nolofinwe’s sight, paused and looked up at him, as did we all.

“Do we?” Nolofinwe asked, good-humouredly.

“Artanis wants a terrace looking out from her bed-chamber, as does Findekano. We are pressed for space here. We have not been able to stable all our horses here. There is no place for the herb gardens. It requires considerable labour to draw water from the wells downhill and bring them up for our needs. We should at least move closer to water. So many of us love hunting and riding. It would help us if we moved further away from the village. Not too far, but still enough to have our own lands and gardens.”

“I am not fond of moving away from the village,” Father said. “We have no reason to wander further afield. The terrain did not seem hospitable.”

“I have surveyed the land,” my brother assured him. “There is water. We can build to our content.”

“It would require uprooting,” Father pointed out.

“Since when did we fear that?” my brother asked honestly. “We have done it so often.”

“Not voluntarily,” Atarinke said wryly. “I can understand your reasons but I must agree with Father that there is no need to tempt fate.”

“What of this?” Turkano cut in quickly. “Let us build. We can determine once the project is completed if it behooves us to stay or move.”

Russandol looked ill-convinced, as did Father. Findarato winked at Turkano. 

“Why do you want a terrace?” I asked Artanis, suspicious.

“Perhaps I might want to stand there and spout poetry,” she said calmly, once more returning to her enterprising manner of hiding the vegetables.

Nolofinwe called for an attendant to serve Artanis more vegetables, remarking that her intake pleased him. She scowled.

“No lobsters,” she muttered. “No oysters. No squid.”

I leaned across her to ask Aikanaro, “Are there any rivers nearby?”

“There is one an hour’s ride away,” he told me. “Why?” 

“I do loathe fishing, but anything for Artanis.”

She blushed. I pressed a kiss to her curls, thanked Aikanaro, and returned to my wine.

——

“Ready?” 

“Not yet,” I told him. “I have had the stableboy bring our horses to the courtyard.”

“At this hour?” 

“It will be worth it.”

He sighed, disgruntled, but followed me. I rode east, as Aikanaro had instructed me to. For a while, my brother was content to follow me. Then mischief possessed him and he began racing me. Pride demanded that I indulge his folly. Our laughter was as wild as the western winds. Hair cut across my field of vision and I regretted not having bound it. He pulled ahead and I drunk in the sight of him plastered to the back of his steed, exhorting the animal to gallop faster. 

I saw the waters sparkling in the distance and called out to him. He let me win, slowing down to a canter, as he had so often done in our youth. So we arrived at the river with our steeds frothing at the mouths. He leapt off his mount and came over to assist me. 

“Let them roam,” I told him, grabbing his arm and making our way to the river.

“A dip in the river?” he asked hopefully.

I nodded. We disrobed and entered the water. I could spot shoals even in the dim light of the night sky. 

“I approve of your idea,” he said, swimming towards me. 

“I will race you to that boulder,” I told him.

He looked hesitant. He was a faster rider and it cost him nothing to let him win. I was, however a faster swimmer. He would not need to let me win. He agreed when I scowled.

When I won, he asked me, not quite graciously, what I would like for the win. 

“Get up on the boulder,” I told him. He obeyed with no fanfare. “Sit, no, no, closer to the edge now. Lie back.” 

“Macalaure?” 

“Spread your legs, as wide as you can.”

His response was a quiet groan. 

“What a feast you are!” I exclaimed, drawing near and twirling a finger in his navel. His hips lifted as he startled. 

“Do try to be still,” I told him. 

When I put my mouth between his legs, I was rewarded with his hands in my hair and words falling incoherent from his lips. I lingered there awhile, letting him work himself into delirious pleas. I had learned from Artanis, a long time ago, how to minister to a man without letting him fall - I had been her willing victim in that lesson. 

“I must-”, he began, broken.

“You must not,” I told him calmly, before letting my mouth venture somewhere outside my experience. The pioneering was worth the effort, I merrily decided, hearing the howls that rent the night. I continued, playing a composition on the warm flesh until he had fallen into sobs and shudders, made a wreck sensitised to the breeze that played on his torso and the water that lapped at his legs. 

When he had lapsed into little more than shaking and low moans, I gathered my wet hair into a hand, gripped it at the base of my neck, and swung it flat against the flesh up behind genitals, the flesh I had been tormenting. 

He crested, too far gone to even speak my name. I looked at the viscous fluid on my hair and thanked my foresight to come to the river. 

“Who is the prude now?” I asked him, unable to resist dragging my fingers behind his genitals, pressing gently against what I wanted to claim.

He kicked my hand away, too exhausted and sensitised to respond to me. I let him rest and swam for a while, occasionally gazing at the rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, he heaved himself up into a sitting position and looked at me in wonder.

“Who is the prude now?” I asked again.

He dove and came to me. Luckily, I had foreseen his nefarious scheme of trying to dunk me. I led him on a merry chase before succumbing, laughing.

“That was unexpected,” he told me, later, when we had returned home. 

“Liked it, didn’t you?” I teased him, laughing at the fetching spots of colour high on his cheekbones.

He cleared his throat. He stared at me for a moment, weighing something. I caught his wrists and told him quietly, “I want to have you. I will have you, if you let me. Before that, I want to tell you something.”

“You are worried that it will trigger my memories.”

I took a deep breath and said quietly, “Yes. I am also worried that you will mix carnality with other aspects of life.”

“You loathe power games in sex,” he told me plainly. “I know myself well enough to understand why I might be drawn to them.”

“There is that,” I told him. “However, even if it should come to that, I must have your promise that it shall stay between us.”

“I must have drawn Findekano into the madness last time!” he exclaimed. “That is why he acts so oddly sometimes.”

He looked worried.

I knelt before him, took his hands in mine, and told him solemnly, “I am yours. You must trust me, even with darkness.”

“Macalaure, if you are mine, I must protect you, even from myself.”

This had been our ruin. I knew from the hard set of his face that I could not convince him, not then. I set it aside. I had confidence enough in myself to take up that battle again another time. He had taught me the lesson that it was more important to win at the end than to win everyday until the end. 

He dragged me up to my feet and kissed me swiftly. Then he asked, “How do you want me?”

I was a romantic. I wanted him on his back, so that I could see his face and whisper endearments into his ears. I knew his preferences and knew they were not the same. He took me in many ways, yet the one that drove him the wildest stood out.

He would let me do whatever I wished. However, I wanted him to know the difference between what he preferred and what he might remember, instead of loathing himself for what he truly liked and warping it with ugliness.

“I want you on your hands and knees, on the bed, facing the fireplace,” I told him calmly. 

I did not miss the pleasure kindling in his eyes. He and I were different indeed, in what we liked to enact carnally. That was all which would be done his way this night. I drowned us in gentleness and pleasure, as best as I could, slowly and carefully. I would be damned before I heard him utter a cry of pain under my watch. _Remember this_ , I told him with every touch and kiss. _Remember this even if you remember the rest_ , I entreated him as I moved, my skin sliding over his. 

“I am not fragile,” he bit out, striving to make me lose my slowness. 

_But I saw you borne to us upon an Eagle’s back_.

I did not say anything, merely willing myself to give him what he needed. Gentleness, care and love, should he be unlucky enough to remember the rest. I lied to myself that it was drops of sweat from my brow that dotted his back. I lied to myself that my voice was breaking in passion when I uttered his name as if it was the last word allowed me. I lied to myself that when his wetness struck my hand and he fell with a keening sound, my actions to pull him up and tight against my chest was only to increase my pleasure.

I watched him as he slept. When he woke, his eyes were clear and free of guilt. I sighed in relief.

“This will be the last time I speak on the matter,” he said quickly. “I did remember. Everything. And I want to tell you that all of that doesn’t matter to me, anymore, for I was taught yesterday something more important.”

I waited.

He reached across to cover my clasped hands with his own, and said quietly, “I was taught yesterday that shame, fear and regret have little sway when one is loved as intensely and fiercely as I am.”

If there were Gods still, I would have given them my gratitude.

With his typical aversion to linger in the lands of emotion, he cast me a mischievous smile and asked, "If you are of a mind to, could I petition to be taken again, now?"

"You will be sore," I said absently, still dwelling upon his words of earlier.

He left the bed and made for the large desk. I sighed as he bent over, spread his legs, rose to his toes, and cast a beguiling glance at me. 

"Far it be from me to deny you anything," I told him, and if more sincerity than warranted the occasion made it into my voice, he said nothing of it.

——

“You are a happy man,” Turkano told me as I entered the library with a hum on my lips.

“A content man,” I corrected him.

“The village guards spoke of unusual sounds in the night.”

“Perhaps the wind.”

“A man’s voice screaming,” Turkano told me, smiling. “Aikanaro and Findarato ventured to investigate, until they recognised the voice and the emotion.”

“Our family’s noblest calling has been that of voyeurism,” I muttered. 

“And eavesdropping,” Turkano said companionably. 

Outside, on the terrace, stood Russandol and Artanis, speaking in low voices, their faces earnest and their mien solemn.

“And eavesdropping.” I told Turkano, as we both made our way to the doors.

“We cannot save anyone else, not now, not when I have broken myself to build us this,” Russandol was saying. “It grieves me to think of Grandfather, Elenwe, Elwe Singollo and many others.”

“It grieved me,” Artanis replied. “Then I realised that there was little point to it. I cannot do anything. Nobody can do anything. What you wrought was the best you could - you bartered to save the souls whose deaths that you bore the guilt for, even if the guilt had not been yours to bear.”

“You knew?”

“I knew when I saw the soldiers who had accompanied you for the parley,“ Artanis told him. “I knew when I saw the children who died in Moringotto’s keep. I wondered-”

“She wanted no part of it,” he said quietly. “She had found her peace in her fate.”

They remained silent, watching the birds flock over the tree-line. Then Russandol asked, “How did you know?” 

“Your eyes are remarkably useful in giving away your truths,” Artanis said. Her face was open and full of warmth when she looked upon him then. She stood on her tip-toes and lifted a hand to gently move the curls of unruly hair away from my brother’s face. 

“We fought a war together,” he told her.

“We won a war together,” she corrected him. “Well, you had won the war by yourself. I merely had to implement the finishing touches.”

“You burned because of what I wrought,” he whispered, regret in his eyes, reminding me of the man who had spent a great many days watching the Thangorodrim. “And I once pawned myself rather than hand you over.”

“You did not hand anyone over,” she said, shaking her head. “We are all here. Well, you were foolish enough to give up on yourself, but that has been a longstanding folly of yours and one that I am sufficiently well-acquainted with to account for in advance.”

“I wanted Macalaure and you to find peace together,” he said softly, looking terribly guilty. 

“I know. Macalaure suspects, I am sure. After all, it is unlikely that you would have the good sense to take his love for what it means despite a lifetime of his devotion to you.” 

“I didn’t, then,” he said quietly. “I do, now.”

“Even though you have remembered?” she asked, hope dawning in her eyes as fiercely as our father’s soul had brightened the Silmarilli.

“Even so,” he replied, with a wan smile. “They are only memories. He and I are here. Why should I let memories break us when I refused to let the Gods themselves?”

She laughed and threw her hands around him, tension leaving her slender frame upon hearing his words. I noticed that Turkano’s hand that had been gripping my arm also relaxed. I let my head rest upon Turkano’s broad shoulder, relieved. 

We watched Russandol kiss Artanis’s cheek before they laughed like maniacs again and fell into each other’s arms. 

When Nolofinwe reached us, drawn to us by the noise, he was in time to see my brother and my cousin execute a wretchedly executed, impromptu waltz through the carefully-tended flower bushes. Above them, the skies shone white and sunless, born of the fire that had hallowed me. 

Gold and carmine wound and unwound, as they danced, forming a quiet symphony of colours for our brave, new world.

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope the Sunset journey has given you moments of reading pleasure. Farewell until we meet again.
> 
> Asides: I was inspired by Dvorak's _A New World_ to write this.

**Author's Note:**

> It is so lovely to see the great artwork and the many off-shoot stories this brought about. Thanks for reading the arcs. The best index is [ Index ](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheSongOfSunset) . This would have been a 404 resource not found, if not for my long-time archivist who coaxed me. I apologise for the disorganization. I did try my best.


End file.
